


You Were Only Waiting For This Moment

by lithos_saeculum



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Gen, Insecure Noct, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:46:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24129916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lithos_saeculum/pseuds/lithos_saeculum
Summary: “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you use them like that before,” Gladio says. “In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you use them at all.”The line of the Kings of Lucis are born with wings. Noct feels like it's just another burden he has to bear.
Relationships: Noctis Lucis Caelum & Gladiolus Amicitia, Noctis Lucis Caelum & Ignis Scientia, Noctis Lucis Caelum & Prompto Argentum
Comments: 47
Kudos: 343





	You Were Only Waiting For This Moment

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I saw some fanart a few days ago which I can't for the life of me find again and that led me to a very pleasant shamelessly tropey daydream which turned into this (hopefully pleasant) shamelessly tropey fic. Hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! And thank you to the fanartist who I will definitely link here if I can ever find them...

_“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you use them like that before,” Gladio says. “In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you use them at all.”_

~

Everything hurts. Somewhere, there’s soft music playing, and the window’s open, balmy air heavy with the fragrance of Luna’s favourite flowers. The blue flowers, what are they called? S- something? What are they called, what are they called?

Something cold touches his back and it hurts like it pierced the flesh. Noct buries his face in the pillow and tries to remember the name of the flower, not listening to the murmured apology. 

Everything hurts.

~

“I’m afraid it’s not good news,” the doctor says, polishing her glasses with a white handkerchief. “The tendons are quite heavily damaged. It may be a long while before you have good control over them again. If ever.” She sighs. “I’m sorry. We’ll do whatever we can to help.” 

Noct nods, feeling helpless, face-down on the bed. Luna reaches out from her seat beside the bed and squeezes his hand. “I’ll help, too,” she whispers. 

But he doesn’t really think there’s anything anyone can do to help. 

~

_The reason the Astrals bless us with wings is to help us carry out our sworn duty: protect the people._

Noct hears his father’s voice in his head, the words that he’s heard so often. And his own words, on many and varied occasions, that always lead up to the same answer. 

_But daddy, they’re in the way! But daddy, I can’t even_ fly. _Daddy, teach me how to hide them like you do._

_The reason the Astrals bless us with wings..._

Later, when the pain has receded to a dull ache and the fear is only present most of the time instead of all the time, he remembers other things his father said. 

_You’ll learn to fly, in time. You should learn to use them properly before you learn to hide them. They’re not something ugly and inconvenient to be hidden away. They are a blessing from the Astrals, and one day they will help you to protect the people._

He tries to extend one wing, but nothing happens. Nothing except an increase from dull ache to sharp pain. He draws in breath.

“Noct?” Luna asks, looking up from where she’s writing a letter across the room. She always hears everything, no matter how much he tries to hide it. 

“It’s nothing,” he whispers. 

She stands and crosses the room, kneeling by the bed where he’s lying face-down because the broken wings won’t let him lie on his back. 

“What can I do to help?” she asks. It’s not the first time she’s asked. But this time, Noct has an answer.

“Help me learn how to hide them.”

~

It takes him a lot less time to learn to hide the wings than it does to relearn how to walk. The two are related: without the broken, uneven weight of them on his back, everything becomes much easier. It’s supposed to be a last resort – his father’s told him often enough. Another gift, that the magic of the wings allows them to be hidden, not just from sight, but from all senses, in case of emergency. But they are the symbol of who he is – what he is, what the Astrals have deigned to bestow upon him – and he knows his father will be disappointed. 

They’re heavy. They’re heavy and hot and broken and they _hurt_. 

His father comes to visit him and finds him sitting in a wheelchair, wingless. He doesn’t say anything.

Noct doesn’t say anything either. 

~

Noct recovers. It takes a long time, and he spends a lot of time watching the world go by without him. Eventually, he’s allowed to go back to school, though he still spends some of the time in the wheelchair. Then, he’s able to spends whole days, weeks, months without using the chair at all. And that’s it: he’s officially recovered. 

No-one says anything about the fact that he’s kept the wings hidden the whole time. It’s more convenient, anyway. They don’t fit with the wheelchair, they don’t fit with his desk at school, they don’t – don’t _fit_. His father can fold his wings in ten different ways to keep them out of the way, but even he needs to have modified furniture, special vehicles, all because it’s important to always display the blessing of the Astrals. 

Noct doesn’t even get it, anyway. Maybe hundreds of years ago wings made it easier to protect the people, but now, when they’ve got helicopters, planes, drones? Now, when most of what the King does is sit in meetings in the Citadel?

So the wings stay hidden. And no-one says anything. Until one night at dinner, Ignis sighs. 

“Your physiotherapist tells me she wants to start working with your wings before you start training with Gladio next month,” he says.

Noct swallows his mouthful and puts his fork down. The wings have been gone for almost a year and nobody’s mentioned them. If it hadn’t been for the constant, quiet effort of maintaining the magic that keeps them hidden – and the sight of his father, regal and wrapped in feathers as he passes – he could almost have forgotten they ever existed at all.

“What for?” he asks. 

“I have no doubt Gladio will want to train you to use them,” Ignis says. “We should make sure they’re properly healed first.” He pauses. “Can I see them?” 

“No,” Noct says, too fast. When Ignis frowns at him, he shrugs deeper into his sweatshirt. “I’ll just – knock something over, or something,” he says. “They’re – they get in the way.” 

“I recall,” Ignis says. “But Gladio will help you with that.” 

He waits, but Noct is still staring at the table, tracing a pattern in the wood with his thumb. 

“Noctis.” 

Noct sighs, closes his eyes, and releases the magic. Immediately, the old weight is back – the weight he’d almost forgotten. But it’s not like it was when he was little. It feels – uneven. 

“Oh, Noct,” Ignis breathes. “They haven’t healed properly.”

He opens his eyes. “The doctor said I wouldn’t be able to control them.” 

Ignis reaches out a hand to touch the joint of his right wing and Noct tries not to flinch back, but doesn’t succeed. The wings don’t hurt as much as they did before, but it’s clear they haven’t healed anywhere near as much as his back and legs. 

Ignis sits back, mouth set in a line, eyes a little too wide. After a moment, he swallows and pushes his glasses up his nose. 

“The physiotherapist will help,” he says.

~

It turns out that Noct’s doctor thought that his physiotherapist was looking after his wings, and Noct’s physiotherapist thought that Noct’s doctor was looking after his wings, and it didn’t occur to anyone that absolutely no-one was looking after Noct’s wings, least of all Noct himself. Out of sight, out of mind. The physiotherapist tells him that the poor healing might have happened anyway, probably would have, and that hiding the wings was what enabled the rest of his body to heal, so he shouldn’t feel bad. 

The doctor tells him that he will never be able to fly. 

Ignis remains silent. His father sighs a lot. Gladio shouts. None of it has any effect on the state of his wings. The physiotherapy improves matters somewhat, but they remain ugly, not-quite-even, a gift that he rejected without even really meaning to.

So he hides them again. 

“ _Noctis_ , I’m not gonna tell you again,” Gladio says, voice full of fury and frustration. 

“Oh, come on, what’s the point?” Noct yells right back. “I’m never going to fly and there’s fuck all else you can do with them, so why not just--” 

“Be _cause_ some day you might have to fight with the full weight of them on your back,” Gladio growls. “You think you can just keep up with hiding them in a crisis situation when you need all your energy just to survive? And what then, suddenly you’re off-balance, don’t know what you’re doing? You want that to happen?” 

“I can handle it,” Noct says. “I’ve been handling it for two years, haven’t I? It doesn’t take that much effort.” 

Gladio disagrees. But even though Noct ends up capitulating on almost everything else Gladio wants, in this one thing, he stays firm. He works with the physiotherapist, but otherwise, the wings stay hidden. 

~

 _They’re a fucking symbol, Noct_ , says Gladio, and Noct thinks about what it might symbolise, for the people to see his misshapen wings, whether that would make them feel safe. 

When it comes time for Gladio to get his tattoo, he chooses an eagle, its wings spread across his back, feathers down his arms, huge, beautiful, inescapable. He takes to wearing sleeveless shirts or even going shirtless, flexing so that the feathers move. 

_Spent enough money on the damn thing, might as well show it off_ , he says. 

Noct thinks there might be another reason.

~

On the day he starts high school, Noct makes a friend. Prompto Argentum – a kid he’s known for years, but only spoken to once – comes right up to him and slaps him on the back, right where his left wing would be attached if they weren’t hidden. 

“Hey there, Prince Noctis,” he says. 

And just like that, Noct makes a friend.

~

“Hey, I saw your dad on TV yesterday,” Prompto says one golden summer day when they’re hiding from Ignis in the depths of the Citadel gardens. They’ve got pizza and cokes and Noct is trying to tempt over a grey cat that’s half asleep in a patch of sun. “Wow, he’s really majestic and stuff, huh? Those wings, man.” 

Noct makes a non-committal noise. The cat looks like it’s more interested in falling completely asleep than in Noct’s half-eaten slice of pizza. Damn. 

“So are you going to grow wings some time?” Prompto asks. “Or is that just a your-dad thing.” 

Noct’s surprised enough to stop paying attention to the cat. “You don’t know?” he says.

Prompto shrugs. “Must have missed that class in social studies.” Like it’s nothing, like it’s not important. 

Noct looks away. “All the kings of Lucis have wings,” he says. “It’s a blessing from the Astrals. To help us carry out our sworn duty.” _To protect the people._

“Ohhh, cool,” Prompto says. “So you’ll get them once you’re king? Wow, that’s going to be amazing!” 

“No, I--” Noct says, suddenly wishing he was somewhere else – training with Gladio, going over paperwork with Ignis, _anywhere_ – “I already have them. They’re just hidden.” 

“Huh?” Prompto says. Then he leans back and peers at Noct’s back, waving his hands through the air behind him. “I don’t get it.” 

“Hidden with magic,” Noct says. “It’s as if they’re not there at all.” 

“Oh. Wow.” Prompto contemplates Noct’s back a little more. “That’s – huh. How come I’ve never seen them? Is it, like, a royal decree that you have to keep them hidden or something? That sucks, man.” 

“No, they’re just--” Noct says, but he can’t explain. He can’t explain what they are, the weight of them, what they symbolise, what they _mean_. So instead, he waits till Prompto has leaned forward again, out of harm’s way, then lets go of the magic in his mind. 

The wings appear, heavy and hot, not nearly as unevenly weighted as they once were, but still – not right. Noct stares at the ground, avoiding Prompto’s gaze. 

“Oh em gee,” Prompto whispers. “They’re so beautiful.” 

That’s enough to make Noct look up. Prompto is staring at his wings, eyes huge, mouth open, a picture of wonder. He raises a hand, then glances briefly at Noct, like he can’t bear to tear his eyes away for more than a second. “Can I – touch them?” he asks. 

Noct shifts. The pizza feels heavy and greasy in his stomach. “Sure,” he mutters. 

Prompto reaches out. The first touch is so light that Noct doesn’t even feel it. Then there are fingers, stroking carefully down one of his pinion feathers. It’s nothing like the firm, directive touch of his physiotherapist. It’s not even like when his nanny or Ignis used to groom him when he was little. It feels – different. Prompto is careful, like he’s frightened he’ll hurt Noct – he won’t, the pain has mostly faded now except when Noct tries to push it too hard – and he’s staring like Noct’s just handed him the moon.

“Wow,” he whispers, hands growing a little more confident, grooming methodically through Noct’s feathers. 

It feels – nice. Noct leans back on his hands and stretches out his wing a little more. The sun is warm on his face and nobody’s here to see except Prompto. 

He closes his eyes.

~

“How’d you know how to do that, anyway?” Noct asks one night half an hour after Prompto abandons their game in favour of grooming Noct’s wings. Normally, Noct just keeps them hidden, but sometimes when they’re alone and Prompto begs him, he lets loose a little. Sometimes he even admits to himself that it’s a relief, not to have to constantly maintain the magic.

“Oh, I got this book about chocobos,” Prompto says from behind him, where he’s running his fingers through the downy coverts just where the joint is slightly misshapen. “Care and feeding, you know. So that when I finally get to meet one – ack!” He hits the floor with a thud, which could have something to do with the fact that Noct just smacked him in the face with his wing. 

“Dude,” Noct says, “I’m not a chocobo.” 

“Aww, but you’re almost as cute as one,” Prompto says, struggling to a sitting position and spitting out fluff. “Aw, jeez, I bet you were so cute when you were a tiny chocochick! Are there any pictures? I might die – ack!” 

Later, Ignis doesn’t remark on the fact that he finds Noct with his wings not only visible but outstretched across the couch. He does mention how well-groomed they look, though. 

Prompto preens, but manages not to mention chocobos.

~

“Can you fly?” Prompto asks one night when they’re fifteen.

“No,” says Noct.

Prompto doesn’t ask about that again.

~

“Prince,” says Cid, staring at Noct like he’s something he scraped off his shoe. “Like they took your old man and kicked the dignity out of him.” He stalks around Noct and glares at something behind him. “What about your wings? Too good to show them to the likes of us?”

Noct feels a flush creep up his face and he shrugs down deeper into his jacket. “I keep em hidden,” he says. “More convenient.” 

“Con _ven_ ient?” Cid says. “You ain’t got them wings for the sake of convenience, boy. They’re a blessing from the Astrals.” 

Noct looks away, but his gaze lands on Gladio, arms folded, feathers dark against his sweat-shiny skin. 

“Yeah,” Noct mutters. “I know.” 

~

The news comes first, then the pictures. Insomnia, during the fall, a few and then many, all the people who had their cellphones ready, who sent pictures to those outside the city before communications were shut down. Buildings on fire, drop-ships hanging in the sky over the Citadel, soot-streaked children weeping. 

And his father. Someone – who knows who – managed to take a single picture of his father, dying but still fighting, his great, black wings outstretched as if to offer protection one last time. 

The others look at him now. Sideways glances, when they think he’s not watching. He knows what they’re thinking: that now it’s his job. He’s the king. It’s his duty to protect the people. But he couldn’t even protect his own father. He doesn’t know how to do that job. Every time he thinks about – doing anything at all, it’s like there’s just blackness, stretching away for ever. He doesn’t even know where to start. 

So he doesn’t start.

~

They’re in the desert outside Hammerhead fighting a pride of coeurls when it happens. One minute, there’s just the heat and roar of battle, his friends shouting, everyone focused, his muscles singing as he wields his sword. The next, there’s screaming. 

Prompto’s screaming. 

Noct turns towards the sound and sees him – down on the ground, writhing, with a coeurl about to pounce. A killing move. 

He doesn’t think. He just throws his sword and warps after it, and when he comes out of the warp, he’s – flying. Flying towards Prompto. Or – he’s not flying, but he’s not running, and he becomes aware that his wings are present, even though he doesn’t remember releasing the magic that keeps them hidden. But it’s not important enough to worry about right now. He lands, stumbles, unused to – whatever this is, and stands over Prompto, spinning to face the coeurl right as it leaps. 

He hears Ignis calling his name, but all he sees is a wall of black feathers, his wings forming a shield around him, around Prompto. He feels the impact of the coeurl – it hurts, in some far away part of himself that isn’t important right now – and as he feels it, he snaps his wings open again with all his strength.

The coeurl goes flying, hit with the full force of his wingbeat. A moment later, a dagger embeds itself in the coeurl’s throat, and then Ignis is beside him. 

“You—” Ignis whispers. Then he looks down. “Prompto,” he says.

Noct looks down, too. Prompto isn’t writhing any more. He lies still in the dirt, face ashen. 

“Heads up!” yells Gladio. Noct turns to see more coeurls heading their way. 

“I’ll take them,” Ignis says. “You take care of Prompto.” 

Noct nods and sinks to his knees, folding his wings over his friend. 

~

Prompto sleeps for three days and two nights. The elixirs and potions do their work, but they can’t work miracles. _He’s lost a lot of blood_ , Ignis says. _We need to keep him warm and let him build his strength back up._

Noct lies in the bed next to Prompto. He doesn’t sleep. Every now and then, he reaches out to touch Prompto’s arm, his chest, his cheek. He’s cool to the touch and still looks more grey than pink. 

Noct is tired. He’s so tired. Insomnia is gone and his father is gone and here he is, with nothing at all, with no idea where to start. He turns to face away from Prompto and tries not to hear his scream in his head.

Gladio comes in. He stands at Prompto’s side, put a hand on his forehead, grunts and mutters something unintelligible. Then he pulls up a chair, pulls it around so that he’s sitting on Noct’s side of the bed.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you use them like that before,” Gladio says. “In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you use them at all.”

It takes Noct a moment to understand what Gladio means. Then he shrugs. 

“It wasn’t intentional,” he says. 

Gladio watches him for a moment. “Maybe not at first,” he says finally. “But later? I know intention when I see it.” 

Noct turns over, back to face Prompto. He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the colour of Prompto’s face. 

After a short silence, Gladio stands up. “Have it your way,” he says. He walks away, towards the door, but before he opens it he pauses. “Prompto’s cold,” he says. “We should try and keep him warm.” 

Noct listens to his footsteps walking away down the corridor. He listens to Prompto’s breathing, too shallow, too quiet. 

He turns to face away from Prompto again and releases the magic that keeps his wings hidden, making sure that when they emerge they remain folded, well away from Prompto’s side of the bed. The weight is immediate, oppressive. It’s too warm in the little room even without wings, but they need to keep Prompto comfortable so his body can rebuild itself. 

Noct stretches one wing back and lays it gently over Prompto’s chest. Prompto sighs a little in his sleep but makes no other sound.

Noct closes his eyes.

~

Prompto sleeps for three days and two nights, and by the end of it, Noct’s wings ache from being held in position, one folded, the other outstretched. Noct doesn’t sleep, at least not at first. But after a while, when Prompto’s breathing gets deeper and his colour starts to return, he lets himself drift off. 

The fourth time he wakes up, it’s because Prompto’s snoring. 

The fifth time, it’s because Prompto’s awake. 

“Dude,” Prompto mumbles, shifting under his wing, nestling deeper into the feathers. “You are so – soooo warm.” 

Noct pulls the wing back and rolls over, wraps his arms around Prompto and his wings around both of them. There’s something about being there, inside that shield of black feathers, that makes him feel like somehow, Prompto is safer. It hurts, but not much – some of the flexibility is gone but he can still manoeuvre. 

“Whoa,” Prompto mumbles into his shoulder. “Warm.” 

Prompto falls back to sleep almost immediately. Noct remains where he is for some minutes. Someone comes in, then quietly goes out again. At last, he gets too hot to bear and lets Prompto go. Prompto rolls onto his back and then shivers slightly in his sleep, and Noct turns over, resuming his familiar position, one wing extended. 

“Mmm,” Prompto murmurs. “Feel safe like – chocobo…” 

Noct smiles. 

~

The day that Prompto’s well enough to get out of bed, Noct gets out of bed, too. He takes a shower, grooms his wings as best he can, then hides them and goes outside into the bright noonday sunlight. 

Gladio has found himself a makeshift training arena in an abandoned lot on the edge of town. He’s practising sword form when Noct finds him, shirtless, feathers flexing with his muscles. He makes Noct wait a minute or two before setting down the sword and leaning on it, meeting him with a challenging glare. 

“Finally made it out of bed, princess?” he says. “Ready for some training?” 

Noct, walking towards Gladio, releases the magic that keeps his wings suppressed and extends them to their full span.

“Yeah,” he says. “I am.” 

~

The first time Noct glides – _really_ glides, not just hops in the practice arena – is off a sea-cliff near Galdin Quay. He won’t ever fly, but that doesn’t mean he can’t do anything, as he finds when he launches himself from the cliff and spreads his wings and somehow doesn’t fall. Above him, the sky is endlessly blue, stretching on to the horizon to meet the even more startling blue of the water below. There’s nothing but blue air and blue water and freedom, a freedom he’s never felt, not at any point in his life before. 

Beyond the wind rushing past his ears, he hears his friends, still on the clifftop: Prompto whooping himself hoarse, Gladio bellowing a full-throated roar, Ignis shouting _find an updraught, highness!_

Oh, yeah. Updraught. 

It takes a little practice and a couple of near misses with the cliff, but eventually he manages to land – or more accurately, fall, knocking Prompto flying and careening into Gladio before bringing himself to a halt. Gladio doesn’t even joke, just holds him at arm’s length and dusts him off, then nods. 

“Not bad for a first try,” he says. 

“Holy shit,” Prompto says, scrambling to his feet. “That was _awesome_. You were amazing!” 

Ignis comes to stand beside him. “It was truly a wonderful thing to see,” he says. 

Noct glances up at him, and Ignis squeezes his shoulder. 

“There’s more than one way to receive a blessing,” he says. 

“Noct, you gotta do it again,” Prompto says. “I need more photos!” 

“Right, like you didn’t take five hundred last time,” Gladio says. 

Noct glances over and sees an image on the back of Prompto’s camera: himself, a black silhouette outlined against the sea and sky, wings outstretched. He’s never seen himself with them, he realises, not since he was a little kid. 

“Hey, you gotta take your photo ops where you find them,” Prompto says. “Noct, come on man, do it again?” 

And so Noct does.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, I [found the fanart!](https://burbled-xv.tumblr.com/post/190334579527/wings-make-good-blankets) How lovely ♥
> 
> Also, important information: Noct's wingspan is pretty huge in this, like, body-length to wingspan ratio of an eagle. So yeah, they get in the way, but they're also handily big enough to wrap around himself and ~~Prompto~~ someone else, and strong enough to thwap a coeurl in the face. Good wings!


End file.
